chocolate cherries
by colorful swirls
Summary: But now he's gone, and you don't even have the strength to rebel anymore. — Roxanne/Scorpius. Not every fairytale has a happy ending (and she's certainly not a prettypretty princess).


**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

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**chocolate cherries**

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You've always been a rebel.

...

Your family is partly responsible for this. You're just so different—so obviously, painfully different. They love you for it.

But they hate you for it, too.

...

Your looks. Your attitude. Your personality. Your relations. Your _everything_, except last name and Hogwarts house, has never been seen before in a Weasley, or Johnson.

Everyone else has the bright, striking Weasley red hair. But while your hair is red, it's more of a brownish-red, just a shade too dark to fit in with the rest of them.

Your eyes are not green, blue, brown, or _hazel_, even. They're a strange combination of brown and blue, with flecks of gold and green in the middle.

With only two people that have green eyes in your family, and the rest a mass of blue and brown, this definitely makes you stand out.

...

Nevertheless, you're accepted. Dominique and Molly become your rocks, the two that you always hang out with whenever it's time for yet_ another _Weasley/Potter/Lupin/Scamander/Longbottom family reunion.

But however many girl talks you have with Dom and Molly, the cousin you feel closest to is Rose. You're lumped together often, being close in age and having the same "R" begin your names. You and Rose talk, go out, share secrets. You're not her best friend—no one could replace Albus.

But you're close, and you care about her.

This is both a blessing and a curse in the long run.

...

Roxie and Rosie, they call the two of you. She's the smart one, with the trademark Weasley hair; the oh-so-cliché father's looks and mother's personality; the one with two best friends (that remind everyone of the past). Rose represents everything perfect and planned and predictable.

You, on the other hand, are wild, disorganized, complete unexpected, and somewhat untrustworthy. You're not simply _imperfect_.

You're the one that is a burden, not a blessing; the one that is conceived as goth by others; the one that's different, and not only that, you're the one that's _proud_ to be different.

You, Roxie, stand for spontaneous accidents and continuous misbehavior.

...

You like to think of yourself as pretty—and you know how horrid the word is. Pretty is fluffy, meaningless, trivial, stupid, girly, and everything you've trained yourself to avoid.

But one day a boy—Conner Nott, in fact—calls you pretty, and suddenly, you like the sound of it.

...

Things with Conner don't last long. In his mind, you're Roxie, not Roxanne, not even _Weasley_. He sees you as a child.

What disgusts you is that he's kissing you in a closet, his rough three-years-older hands all over your body, but you know that he thinks of you as a toy.

A pretty, shiny, toy, maybe, but a _toy_, nonetheless.

...

You decide that your remote control isn't working one day, and ask him to please return you to the store, or fix you.

He chooses to return you, with a money-back guarantee and a promise that his purchase will be better next time.

You don't know why this makes your eyes water just a teensytiny bit—you must be turning into one of _them_.

...

That was your third year at Hogwarts. Now it's your fifth, and you're determined to take the Gryffindor House by storm—and maybe the whole castle, if you weren't so scared of Professor Longbottom flooing your parents.

Dominique and Molly introduce you to Scorpius Malfoy one day when he's waiting for Rose to come back from the restroom so they can go on their first date. Apparently, he'd asked her to accompany him to Hogsmeade a few days ago.

His eyes keep darting back and forth across the unfamiliar Common Room. (Albus let him in.) His palms are sweating.

His vanilla-blonde hair falls into his startlingly piercing eyes, and all of a sudden you have a strange wish that _you_ were the one making him this nervous.

...

In sixth year, you find your passion—other than your cousin's on-again, off-again boyfriend that you secretly fell for over the summer, of course.

...

Painting has become your refuge. Whenever you just can't take it any longer, the journey up to the Astronomy Tower becomes your favorite, especially whenever you have a key clenched in your fist.

The key is to open your "treasure box"—which is really just an old, simple lock-and-key pink box with princesses painted on it. It was originally given to you by Aunt Audrey, to hold your dolls, but that was before your family discovered who you _really_ were—not a doll type of girl. Now, it contains paper, paints, brushes, and mints.

The key still has dried up pink paint and somehow-still-shining rhinestones that gleam bright violet and teal.

...

Your paintings are rarely child appropriate.

They feature blood; guts; angel wings coated with tar and ash; bright red halos; devils with a hint of gray in their eyes (to represent how much smoke erupts from wherever they go, of course); and more often than not, you draw the past.

James Potter, Sirius Black, Lily Evans, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Albus Dumbledore, Colin Creevey, Mad-Eye Moody.

People that died in the war. People that died to kill Voldemort. There are more, many more than just them, and you wish you knew about the _regular_ people that died, so you could honor them, too.

You owe these people your life, so you really wish that James's hair would come out right, Colin's nose was less lopsided, Lily's eyes were a shade brighter.

…

Your paintings aren't any good (in your mind), they rarely make sense (to other minds), but they always relieve your anger, tension, or sadness (clear to all minds).

...

One year, Scorpius comes to your house. Albus is staying there with Fred and James while Lily stays with Rose and Hugo. Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny are on their twelve year anniversary celebration on an island somewhere.

It's slightly awkward, to walk down the halls of your house and be on alert for the boy you-shouldn't-be-but-are in love with.

You talk to him once.

"You're Roxie, right?" he asks one night when everyone is outside, looking at fireworks.

"Roxanne," you say, looking into his stormy gray eyes and trying not to lose control of yourself.

…

The first time he sees you—really _sees_ you, the way you see him, is a bright, sunny Monday in your seventh year.

Rose is nowhere to be found—the two of them aren't together at the moment, anyway.

"Good morning, Roxanne," he greets you in the dungeon while the you're both waiting for Professor Patil and the rest of the class to come in.

"Good morning, Scorpius," you answer. It's probably your imagination—but is he _blushing_?

"Roxanne, I've been meaning to tell you something." He takes a step closer to you. "Meet me at the Astronomy Tower at eleven."

…

All you do the rest of that day is think. Should you go? Is it a trick? A dare? A prank?

_Do I care, if it is? _

…

It strikes you as odd—the first day he seems to take an interest in you, he makes a move, too.

One thing is obvious, unlike the mystery that shrouds why he would take an interest in _you_:

Scorpius Malfoy does not hesitate, nor does he have much patience.

…

That night, at eleven, you go, against your better judgement.

He's waiting for you, by the edge of the tower. You imagine his blond hair a bit whiter, his gray eyes pale blue, his chin growing a beard. You imagine him tumbling off the tower, frozen in flight...

But, no. That was the past. Anyway, if someone was to fall, it would be you.

…

He talks to you. A meaningless conversation. Finally, he gets to the point.

"I like you, Roxanne," he says.

"Thanks," you answer stupidly. His eyes are burning into yours, though, so much that you feel like you should be ashes by now.

He chuckles. "I mean I _really_ like you, Roxanne. Like—more than I ever liked Rose."

_Don't smile. Don't smile. Don't smile. It's not a good thing that he likes you more than Rose. Don't smile. It's _conceited_._

You're about to smile, but luckily, he finds other things for your lips to do.

(It just makes you want to smile more.)

…

For a beautiful, sunlit year, you're together. The best year anyone anywhere _ever_ had.

It's full of stolen kisses and laughter and cheeky grins and throwing flour around and paintball fights. Rose is distant and sometimes bitter, but she remains peaceful. She finds comfort in Lysander Scamander.

Lily is with Lorcan (you pretend you don't see the looks she gives Scorpius sometimes). Molly and Lucy are heartbroken—Lily and Rose have taken their boyfriends.

Teddy and Victoire are getting married (Dominique, Lucy, Rose, and Lily are the bridesmaids). James has gotten himself a girlfriend, as well as Albus, and love is in the air.

(Literally. Your dad has been tinkering, and he's released a "love perfume" that squirts out love potion and affects anyone that inhales it.)

…

One day, you sit beside an apple tree and chomp on the apples you've just picked. He's with you—his arm around you, eyes closed, and you think that nothing has ever been so mesmerizing.

…

The first time he tells you that he loves you, flying is no longer impossible for you.

(Not on a broom. Actual _flying—_the way Voldemort could, according to Uncle Bill.)

…

It's the most beautifulperfectwonderful_amazing_ thing you've ever done, being with him. He's like oxygen—you have to have him, or you die.

Some days you wish that you died when he left. Death is certainly better than the agony you went through.

…

Your world comes crashing down on a Monday.

Of _course_.

…

"I just can't do this anymore, Roxanne," he says, his eyes betraying his sadness. "I'm sorry."

You close your eyes. You'd known that it was too good to be true—people like _him_ don't stay with people like _you_—but a foolish part of you had imagined weddings, and children...

You take a deep breath, gulping for air, fighting the tears that are already stinging behind your eyes.

"Okay." You turn around. You walk away. But you do look back.

You look back more than you should.

…

Life goes on. You graduate, get a job, buy a flat for yourself, Molly, and Lacy West, a friend from Hogwarts.

But it doesn't feel like _living_. You're a robot, watching the world in shades of gray.

…

Actually, it's not shades of gray. It feels more like you're stuck in a huge icicle, frozen in denial. The frost mutes colors, so you're lucky to get a glimpse of someone's red hair.

…

The first time you see him with Lily, you throw up a little in your mouth.

…

The first time you see him with Dominique, you blanch.

…

When you see him with Rose, _again_, you fall, because _honestly_, hasn't anyone ever told him to _make up his mind_?

(Secretly, you think that if he would give _you_ one more try, all this switching around would be worth it.)

…

It makes you want to curl up and die—it truly does—but it seems as though Rose and Scorpius make each other _happy_.

…

You leave, to just get away, and try to find yourself.

"France," you say whenever your mother asks where exactly you think you're going. "Paris, France."

Irony—the girl that lost her love so painfully is trying to find peace in the city of love.

…

When you return, after two years of eating chocolate cherries and being _free_, surprises are in store.

Scorpius is, apparently, settling down with Rose.

"Marriage is in the picture," Lucy squeals one day at the Burrow, and everyone but you grins, although you all know that Lucy is so happy about this only because it means she has Lysander back.

…

Life goes on.

Get up, get ready, work, eat, live.

…

You eat chocolate cherries. They're good, they remind you of France, and they're starting to remind you of _you_. A hard, dark shell. A soft red center that gets bitten into and destroyed.

Sound familiar?

…

At least you can _live_ again—colors are slowly but surely coming back.

One day, the jet black of Uncle Harry's hair gleams. Another, the red in Dominique's hair shines.

On the best days, the gray in Scorpius's eyes storms again.

…

Live. Live. Live. _Live_.

…

A ring comes out, a question, a scream, a "yes, a million times yes!", and all of sudden colors are popping again. You jump out of your chair, startled, _you've woken up_—but you've woken up to a nightmare.

He's getting married—getting _married_.

…

The wedding is a blur. Black silk, white chiffon, blue satin, red hair. That's all you see. Pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds.

"I do," Scorpius says, and your heart shatters all over again.

…

The only thing that keeps you going is that still-strong hope for them to break up, though in this case, that means _divorce_.

…

There's no divorce, though. He stays with Rose.

Rose, your beautiful, intellectual cousin. She'll be the death of you.

You'll die of a broken heart and unhealthy amounts of jealousy.

…

You marry a wizard named Matthew, a charming, sweet, handsome, man that fathers your child. You stay with him, because even though you're not in love with him, he's a nice friend.

So nice, in fact, that when you call him Scorpius at horribly wrong times—first kiss, wedding, _sex_—he pretends he doesn't hear you, and you pretend you don't hear him calling you Lucy.

...

In the end, you don't belong to_ him_ anymore. But his eyes haunt your dreams, his touch your thoughts. And that age old daydream of Roxanne Malfoy your life.

He's gone—never coming back for you—and you know that it's the end of Roxie and Scorp (the end was a long time ago, actually)—though, really, had you ever even _been_ Roxie and Scorp?

...

It started again that Christmas after Rose died. Matthew had been sent to a wizarding retirement home by his family little over a year ago, despite your halfhearted protests.

The feelings you have hidden for so long have come back to the surface, and it's all you can do to not snog him senseless, even in your old age.

The kids soon saunter off to eat Christmas cookies with their kids, and your grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, and family friends go to have one last talk about the old times when they were young and saving the world.

That leaves you and your cousins, oh, and Scorpius.

Fred, James, Albus, Louis, and Hugo leave to look at James' old room and try to find any fake wands or fireworks that remain, forgotten under the bed.

Dominique, Lily, Lucy, and Molly catch up in a room somewhere, probably trying to even out the tension between Molly and Lily before it's too late.

Victoire and Teddy are out in the courtyard, even though it's raining, even though Teddy has lost his hearing, and even though Victoire was having back issues. They sit on a stone bench, looking at each other—_those two are nuts_, you think.

…

Pretty soon he's asleep in his chair, and you're watching him (of course you are).

Somehow, you don't even realize that he's not breathing until his seventeen-year-old granddaughter, Jeanette, walks in and screams at the top of her lungs, wild, curly blond hair flying, grey eyes wide.

...

You've always been a rebel.

You were never _Roxanne Weasley_, the one that causes mayhem deliberately, like Fred or James. But you're Roxanne, the one that must always be watched, because she'll stand for what she wants, she'll do whatever she wants, and she won't go quietly, either.

Even when he chose your cousin, the spark inside of you didn't go away. Throughout those miserable times when you didn't know where you were going, what you were doing, who you were, you still rebelled.

You rebelled against your own heart, telling yourself that you're not in love with him. When you found Matthew, another broken soul, you told yourself you loved him.

Now you wonder if it was always his existence, the promise of his happiness, the idea that at least his eyes were sparkling _somewhere_ that kept you going.

You've always been a rebel.

But now he's gone, and you don't even have the strength to _rebel_ anymore.

...

Exactly one year, two months, three weeks, and four days later, your body is placed beside his, Rose on his other side (of course).

...

The three tombstones shine against the moonlight, and the smooth, blue water of the river glistens.

The three tombstones shine against the moonlight, their occupants sure to rest in eternal turmoil.

...

**for three competitions/challenges:**

**- blue, green, and turquoise negative on empress empoleon's colors competition**  
**- fred weasley ii on bad mum's weasley-potter-prewett challenge (roxanne isn't sure of her identity)**  
**- day 15 on isn't-she-lovelyy's 400 fragrant prompts challenge (imperfect, windowsill, mesmerize, chocolate cherry)**

**by the way, you'll probably understand the paragraph about victoire and teddy out in the rain better if you read my other story: honey & rain showers.**

**and hats off to my *amazing* beta, calynnthedeltoranolympian.**

**colorful swirls**


End file.
